


Wiggle Room

by LucykomTrigedakru



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Immortal Space Girlfriends, TARDIS rooms, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wiggle Room
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucykomTrigedakru/pseuds/LucykomTrigedakru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Clashildr one-shots (though they will follow on from each other so you could consider this a multi-chapter fic?) about he adventures of our favourite time and space travelling girlfriends: Clara and Ashildr/ Lady Me. Contains (or will contain): fluff, angst, domestic Clashildr and probably smut. Prompts always welcome! </p><p>Currently consists of: </p><p>Flower Garlands- Clashildr's first adventure. They open the doors to find they've landed on a planet with three suns and right in the middle of a massive festival.</p><p>No Place Like Home (Like Your Arms at Christmas)-  The pair spend Christmas Eve in London and some magic mistletoe plays match maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flower Garlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No pre-established relationship at this point.
> 
> Inspired by the song Storms in Africa- Part II by Enya if you'd like to listen while you read :)

Clara strides around the console, sporting a flatteringly short blue waitress dress and apron, but not T.A.R.D.I.S blue mind. It’s lighter than that; sky blue. The colour of quiet calm and freedom. As she goes Clara flips switches, presses buttons and pulls leavers seemingly randomly, with an energetic bounce in her step and a gleeful smile growing from the corners of her lips. Ashildr, on the other hand, absentmindedly shuffles around in almost perfect circles, and paces unknowingly back and forth, in the midst of intense concentration as she pours over the T.A.R.D.I.S handbook. 

Ashildr’s eyebrows knot together before she looks up, her pale eyes quizzical.

“I don’t think I’ve got the chameleon circuit working… The outer shell might be stuck as an American Diner,” she tells Clara over the time machine’s whirring. She folds the corner of the page down before closing the book and placing it out of the way.

Clara barely misses a beat before replying.

“Awesome,” she says with a smile, and Ashildr can’t help but be amused, and undeniably slightly attracted to her nonchalance.

“Still no pulse?”

Clara shakes her head, the wispy strands of hair tucked her ears bouncing.

“Time isn’t healing,” she states matter-of-factly. “I’m still frozen.”

“You know what that means?”

“It means my death is a fixed event; the universe depends on it happening.”

In truth, Ashildr doesn’t really know what she can say other than, “I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why does everyone think I’m so scared? We all face the raven in the end- that is the deal! If I go back to Gallifrey they can put me back, right? In Trap Street, the moment they took me out.”

With her face half hidden by the console’s central column, Ashildr’s expression is hard to read at best. After all these years, if there is something that she has mastered to the point of perfection it’s concealing her emotions, and sometimes even ignoring them completely. And so it takes alarmingly little to hide the fact that the inevitable prospect of losing Clara _again_ is killing her as much as it would _actually_ kill Clara.

She just nods.

“Of course.”

There’s a pause, and in the midst of Clara’s careful thinking in a lightbulb illuminates as she realises something.

“Mind you… seeing as I’m not aging there’s still a tiny bit of wiggle room isn’t there?”

“Wiggle room?”

Clara meets Ashildr’s gaze.

“Wiggle room? Yeah, you know… wiggle room! We could erm, you know, stop off. On the way.”

Tilting her head and raising her eyebrows Ashildr asks, “Where are we going?”

“Gallifrey, like I said. Gallifrey.”

An affirming nod.

Clara pulls down the leaver her hand had been hovering on, making the floor jolt and causing Ashildr to almost topple backwards off her feet, throwing her hands out to her sides for balance. Clara meanwhile is, of course, a natural; sturdy in her stance with both hands firmly on the console and both feet planted firmly on the floor, one in front of the other. It isn’t long before she is grinning wide.

“The long way round,” she finishes.

Ashildr’s eyes light up as if she were a child in a sweet shop- so bright that they’d outshine the sun and the T.A.R.D.I.S’s white walls couldn’t contain them.

All of time and space, and _almost_ infinite time to explore it, in a time machine disguised rather unsubtly as an American Diner. It’s fitting, somehow, and suited to them both; quirky and unafraid. In truth Clara has no idea where she is taking them, but that is the beauty of it; in the unknown and in the adventure.

It just so happens that in all of time and space, where they could’ve landed absolutely anywhere from before the beginning of time to the lag after the end, that it’s raining when they open the doors.

 

*          *          *

 

“Really? Rain?” Ashildr grumbles, albeit only in half seriousness.  

Clara rolls her eyes before grabbing Ashildr’s hand and dragging her outside the T.A.R.D.I.S doors.

“Oh come on! Don’t tell me you are put off by a tiny bit of rain!” she says, raising her voice over the noise that they can’t quite tell where it is coming from.

The rain is pleasantly warm against their skin and soaks the pair through pretty quickly, and the dusty red ground, almost sand like in appearance, is equally sodden and soft beneath their feet. Above them it is impossible to tell the colour of the sky, for there are not one or two, but three gigantic stars, presumably suns, orbiting the planet and emitting different coloured light; the three primary colours: red, blue and yellow, so that the sky is a magnificent spectacle of all the colours of the spectrum.

The noise, they discover, is coming from over the brow of a shallow hill that looks into a crater. Initially they feared that it was a call to war, but the sounds that greeted their ears were far to pleasant for that.

It is an incredible sight; around the edge of the crater stands a sort of galactic marching band, swaying with the tunes they play and inside the circle the musicians have created there are hundreds of natives all dancing together, some in pairs and others in massive groups. Nobody is alone, and they are all laughing, grinning wide and singing. The warmth the exude, the unity and simple happiness is captivating, mesmerising to both Clara and Ashildr who, they know, could stand here and watch this celebration forever.

The natives are dark skinned and humanoid in appearance, men, women and children all wearing flower garlands on their heads, around their ankles and wrists as diverse in colour as the rays of light which bean down on them. They’re dressed in what must have once been white tribal attire, though now, from the rain, the shade is notably darker. They are too giddy on their joy to care though.

It isn’t long before the pair are spotted by a young child, sporting a head of wild untameable curls atop their head, and are dragged right into the middle of the dance. They lose their shoes somewhere along the way, but caring very little about the fact. They are treated like they are among their own; there are no curious glances or raised eyebrows at their absurd dress, as it would appear to these people. Instead they are given white shawls, partially dry, and flower garlands. While Clara wraps her shawl around her shoulders, Ashildr ties hers around her waist. The flower garland around her head, like a crown, is in fact a little too big and eventually slips down and comes to rest around her neck.

There is a moment somewhere along the line, although it is possible that said moment lasted a lot longer, for time is a hard thing to estimate now, in which Clara almost steps back from it all; the music and the singing and the chanting fades into the background and all she see is Ashildr. The girl who died, and the girl who lived. The girl, now infinitely older than a girl who had spent _so many years_ alone, trapped in immortality, but with only the memory of a being with a single life time. How many adventures had she forgotten, how much pain was she glad she could no longer recall? How was it that, at the end of the universe, she had remembered Clara?

And yet now, somehow, it didn’t matter; now, in this moment, all those questions hold nothing but irrelevance because here she stands, here she dances with her dark wet hair plastered across her forehead and the flower garlands bounce as she does so, complimenting her skin, her eyes and her smile may just be the widest it has been in a very, very long time.

Right now, Ashildr is carefree and drunk on joy, and Clara is too.   

The celebration lasts long into the night, after the suns have set the moons have risen, casting a silver sheen over them all, and even into the morning when everyone stops to watch the suns rise once again. When this happens they’re sitting on the brow of the hill, their clothes dry now and it is a beauty beyond human capacity for words. Ashildr’s head flops to rest against Clara’s shoulder as her eyelids begin to grow heavy. They stay like this for a long time, before Ashildr slowly drifts into a dreamless sleep, the tiniest of smiles etched onto her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I only just realised that the rainbow sky is rather suited this lovable queer pair... Didn't even think about it haha. 
> 
> Next chapter will be up before Christmas I should think! See you then,
> 
> Lucy


	2. No Place Like Home (Like Your Arms At Christmas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet-to-be-established Clashildr. 
> 
> I reckon 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' would be a great soundtrack to this one :)

The city of London is decked with Christmas lights, little and large coloured illuminated orbs in the dark, on Christmas Eve, a distinguishable mix of joy and excitement for the following day high in the air, bringing a smile to everyone Clara and Ashildr walk past on Watling Street towards Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Somewhere ahead of them a choir stands singing carols, their festive harmonies gliding towards the pair on the cold breeze.

_Silent night, holy night,_

_All is calm, all is bright..._

A taxi, decorated with tinsel and complete with a Father Christmas bobble-head on the dashboard beeps them as they walk down the middle of the cobble stoned street, so they hop onto the pavement. Even the taxi driver is in good spirits when he passes them, thanking them and wishing a very merry Christmas indeed (to such a gorgeous couple, even though they are not, making today’s tally-of-being-mistaken-for-girlfriends up to three).

They decide to sit on the marble steps of Saint Paul’s when they get to it. It even starts snowing as they people watch, speaking of trivial things and trying to guess each other’s Christmas presents. Clara pulls her black coat tighter around her on instinct, before remembering that she doesn’t feel the cold anymore. Otherwise wearing little more than opaque tights, a rather short, but flattering, maroon pleated skirt and thin cream coloured top would’ve definitely been out of the question.

Ashildr, on the other hand, looks like she should’ve dressed a little warmer, despite Clara’s offer to let her borrow her red duffle coat (though Ashildr probably could have found something a little more “ _her colour”_  in the depths of the T.A.R.D.I.S’s wardrobe). She’s in one of Clara’s old green college t-shirts, a black leather jacket and accompanying jeans, a grey beanie and scarf that may as well be made of nothing at all.

“Your nose is so red you look like Rudolph,” Clara laughs.

Ashildr just rolls her eyes, focusing on scooping the cream out of her take-away hot chocolate cup, before she has an idea. Whilst Clara is immersed in babbling away about the importance of _Jane Eyre_ to feminist English Literature, talking passionately and animatedly with her hands Ashildr catches her off guard and wipes the cream on her nose.

Clara looks mock-astounded.

“That is so rude!” she scolds, before pulling Ashildr’s beanie over her eyes.

A playful catfight assumes, until they’ve chased each other to the top of the stairs by one of the great marble columns. It is Ashildr, being a little shorter than Clara, who notices that mistletoe growing above Clara’s head first. She is pretty sure that she shouldn’t be able to _see_ any plant grow at all, but hey. It’s Christmas. Anything can happen.

She can’t help but chuckle as they stand there in the cold, their noses red and their breaths spiralling above them like a column of smoke with every breath out. They are standing so close that she can feel Clara’s warm breath on her cheek. There’s snow falling from the sky and it is so cliché you couldn’t make it up- as if the moment had been lifted straight from a Christmas romcom and implanted in her life.  

Clara’s eyebrows knit together.

“What?” she asks.

Ashildr adjusts her gaze to pass Clara’s head, encouraging Clara to follow her eyes.

“Look up.”

“What…”

Clara’s warm brown eyes fly wide, a little smile forming so her teeth are just visible between her pink lips.

“Oh! Look at that.”

Ashildr grasps the other women’s attention again, saying her name quietly.

“Clara.”

She looks down at the shorter women, seeing the quietly specks of snow melting amongst the thick woollen stitching of her beanie and, after meeting her eyes, the snowflakes dusted on her long eyelashes. The bright light reflecting from the snow, like a blanket, around them illuminates Ashildr’s irises, giving them a glint that isn’t too dissimilar to the way light refracts through ice’s crystal lattice.

Clara isn’t sure for how long she loses herself in this particular gaze, but somewhere along the line her line of vision dips downwards; flicking to Ashildr’s lips, giving her a surge of confidence. She hasn’t done this in a long time, that she knows, but she buries her hands in Clara’s hair, surprised at how warm she is, and pulls her down towards her, closing the distance between them. A part of her expects reluctance, resistance even, but finds something quite the opposite: relief.

Clara meets Ashildr more than half way. Their noses are cold, and a little red, pressed against each other and her lips are soft, of course. As she’d expected, only more so. Not that she had been thinking about kissing her. Not at all.

There’s a casual naturalness to the way their mouths fit together, harmonious and sweet, perfect and imperfect all at once. Ashildr knows that she’s kissed people before, loved before even, but this, _this_ is something else. The way Clara’s arms slip around her waist, her palms coming to rest in the small of her back pulling them _just a little closer_ so their bodies are flush against each other, that faint intoxicating scent of almonds and waffles…

If Ashildr was to ever brush heaven’s lining, holding and _kissing_ this eccentric, excitable, brown-eyed bubbly human is what it would feel like. If this were some sappy romance film, then she’d cringe at the moan which radiates from her throat as Clara takes her bottom lip between her teeth, before her tongue brushes against it and Ashildr doesn’t even hesitate in opening her mouth because suddenly she has a reason to live again, and all of those years and everything that happened in them have been worth it for _this._  

That’s when the mood shifts and their kissing becomes more heated, intense. But, a few cheers and whooping remind them they’re in _public._ Outside St Pauls Cathedral, of all places. They pull away, the loss of touch almost painful, but they are still close, ends of noses and foreheads pressed together and arms still very much tying them together. Ashildr’s hands come to rest by cupping Clara’s cheeks, and seeing the lust in her eyes, dark as strong coffee, breathes a single word.

“T.A.R.D.I.S?”

Not a pause.

“Yes.”

They untangle, Clara’s fingers intertwining with her own, soft, a little cold and tight in their grip. The short walk back to the T.A.R.D.I.S occurs in silence, with a quick pace, the snow starting to fall a little harder. Soon it’ll be a blizzard.

The ‘CLOSED’ sign had done its job in keeping customers out.

The second they're in the console room Clara spins Ashildr around, whom she'd been dragging behind her, their lips crashing together, backing her against the console. It isn’t at all gracious; it _is all_ hunger, clashing teeth and hot wet lips, tongues. With her hands behind Ashildr’s knees Clara hoists her up, balancing her on the console, and she wraps her legs around Clara’s waist bringing their cores close together.

The black coat is on the floor soon after, having been pushed off Clara’s shoulders (it would’ve taken a lot longer had the coat been done up, mind), with Ashildr’s beanie and scarf in quick succession. Surprised at how little she weighs, though her small height probably has something to do with it (but that is the least of Clara’s current concerns), she spreads her fingers beneath the backs of Ashildr’s thighs, just where her buttock’s end, so she can carry her out of the console room into one of the bedrooms.

They don’t pay much attention to the room, but it isn’t large and lacks the blinding brightness of the console room they’ve just come from. The light is dimmer, more intimate and homely, and orange in hue. There’s a wooden bed in the middle of the far end wall, with fairy lights interweaved between the slats in the headboard, a pile of probably too many pillows and several quilts and blankets nearly laid over it.

(That won’t last long.)

Clara’s maroon skirt and thin cream jumper come off with ease, but her tights are different story.

“Are you having trouble?” Clara teases, laughing a little as she unbuttons Ashildr’s jeans.

“Well, if you’d kindly stop tearing my clothes off I could actually move to get them off,” she growled in response.

“Complaining about this?”

Clara pushes Ashildr’s jeans to the floor before coming back up, leaving Ashildr in her pants and bra, capturing her lips own.

“No…” she mumbles against Clara’s mouth.

(There’s going to be no dominance battle here, it would seem.)

When all their clothes are gone, long forgotten, Clara lays Ashildr down amongst the bedsheets and blankets, which are already tangled, kneeling over her in between her legs. She pauses- not out of nerves of any sort, but because beautiful people deserve to be looked at, studied, and Ashildr, without a doubt, one such person. Beyond words, she’s entrancing both in body and in soul.

Ashildr raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Are you okay?”

Clara nods, and smiles.

“Yeah, of course. You are just so beautiful.”

A blush rises to Ashildr’s cheeks.

“You are more beautiful, though,” she says in response.

A head shake.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The final _no_ is cut off with another kiss as Clara slides a finger inside her lover. Before too long they find their rhythm, the movement of Clara’s wrist and the complimentary rolling of Ashildr’s hips, and another finger is introduced, the pad of Clara’s thumb ever persist about her clit. The aroma of their joint arousal is sweet, but not so strong its overbearing, even if it is certainly a turn on.

Ashildr’s bare skin burns beneath her, the women’s hair strewn over the pillow and her neck and collar bone already sporting some not-so-delicate signs of their lovemaking; red marks which are already beginning to darken. Clara can hear the woman’s heart pounding inside her chest, the quickening pulse in her neck driven by desire and lust, as her head comes to hover in the crook between Ashildr’s hot shoulder and neck. Despite the definite cramp which builds up in her wrist, Clara’s fingers do not pause in their exploration, pushing in and drawing out, curling inside her, and as she gradually picks up the pace the pleasurable torture begins to untie Ashildr, moans and incoherent mumblings escaping her lips with ever escalating volume.

Ashildr is remarkably quiet when she reaches her climax, although she doesn’t need to be, simply breathing Clara’s name, and yet Clara doesn’t need a grand explosion of expletives to know that it is bliss which dances through her veins; she can see it in the woman's features, her lips slightly parted, eyes closed and neck arched backwards, her torso following in suit as she grips Clara’s shoulders.

Just when Clara thinks Ashildr has ridden out her orgasm, and plans to begin all over again, she pushes against Clara’s chest, taking her by surprise and flipping them over so she straddles Clara’s hips.

“Did you really think I was going to let you get away with that?” Ashildr whispers low, her voice a good octave lower than usual, as she begins to grind against the woman beneath her, who still looks surprised.

“Well, I…”

Ashildr puts a finger to Clara’s lips before enveloping them with her own.

“Shhh, my love.”

Ashildr places kisses down Clara’s neck at an agonisingly slow rate, leaving just as many marks of her own on her skin, positively glowing in the semi-illuminance of the fairy lights.

But, when Ashildr dips her head between Clara’s legs she really does wonder whether Ashildr learnt magic in all those years, and comes undone faster than she ever thought was possible; again, again, and again, well in Christmas morning.

When they finally fall asleep in each other's arms, Clara spooning her, Ashildr finally understands what people have meant when they say that love is when home stops becoming four walls and starts to be two arms. And there's no place like home at Christmas. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was okay... I don't normally write smut and idk if this even counts, but I wanted to write something more from the emotional side of things? Let me know what you think!
> 
> I even updated before Christmas (in my time zone) like I said. This never happens so consider it my Christmas present from me to you, wherever you are in the world.
> 
> Merry Christmas! 
> 
> See you again soon, probably, 
> 
> Lucy


End file.
